Like other savvy Cape Codders – even if we are Washashores -- my husband and I considered ourselves prepared for Superstorm Nemo. Our refrigerator was filled with fresh groceries, milk and juice, our shelves stacked with canned food and gallons of water, our fireplace replete with logs and kindling. Moreover, a technician had recently serviced our generator. “We’ll be fine,” we consequently assured off-Cape friends and relatives who anxiously called the day before Nemo blew over our region.

Initially we were fine. Thirty seconds after the electricity conked out on Friday, Feb. 8, our generator flipped on, powering our heating system, our well, and important rooms in our home. “The generator was a good investment,” we assured each other that night. Later as the wind screeched across the marsh, our biggest fear was losing another backyard tree and the consequent expense of its removal. The next day as Nemo raged outside, we enjoyed a quiet Saturday. My husband read a novel while I, at the computer, worked upon a chapter in a new book.

A cozy relaxing day in the midst of that madcap storm! How lucky we were to be living in the twenty-first century, I thought, in an era when machines like generators helped us avoid the ravages of nature. Around 5 p.m. my husband, a talented chef, lit the kitchen fireplace to accompany the dinner he had begun to prepare. By then I had finally completed the chapter and decided it was time to print out. I should also copy that work onto a flash drive, I thought. Wouldn’t hurt.

Simultaneously, the lights flickered, the computer flashed and everything went dark. Bundled into a heavy jacket and gloves, my husband climbed through the snowdrifts and pounding winds and examined the generator with a utility flashlight. Repeatedly, it attempted to start, but failed, its deep cough sounding like a patient with tuberculosis. Unfortunately, Nemo -- possibly in revenge for our earlier disdain -- had frozen shut the lock to the generator cover. Nor did an examination of the propane tank resolve anything since its gauge, too, was frozen.

Inside the house, I scurried around gathering candles, matches and flashlights. Admittedly, I had not done so before. After all, we had a high-end generator that always worked on the rare occasions when the electricity failed, right? Then we debated how to warm food in the fireplace. I flashed back to the large hearths of colonial America and its cooking equipment: iron covered pots, some on stands placed near the fire, other with handles to hang them from iron stands or from hooks in the ledge above the flames. But it was no use. Our microwave and nonstick pans stared glumly at us.

Ultimately we jerry-rigged a large roasting pan upon the burning logs, lined it with aluminum foil and warmed leftovers we found in the dark cave of the refrigerator. Faintly, beneath Nemo’s windy tantrum, I head the shades of eighteenth century heroines from one of my earlier biographies – Mercy Otis Warren and Abigail Adams – laughing at the ineptitude of their twenty-first century “expert” author.

Without electricity, our well couldn’t pump water so we used it sparingly. Fully dressed, we finally retired on a fold-out couch near the fireplace, taking turns refreshing the fire through the night to mitigate the outside temperatures of 10’. The generator, meanwhile, continued to cough until around 2 a.m. when it gasped and stopped.

Morning dawned bright and cold but we could not leave since our 150-foot driveway was clogged with 18 inches of snow. Fortunately, one car stood outside the garage where we recharged a mobile phone and warmed ourselves. Then we shoveled the heavy snow down to its icy bottom. Just as we finished, the man who usually plowed for us cheerfully arrived.

Suddenly we were free. Unable to find an available hotel, we headed to Boston. Two mornings later, our neighbors reported that electricity had returned to our neighborhood. Promptly, we drove back to the Cape and flipped the garage door button. It didn’t open. After unlocking the front door and dashing into the house, we realized that the electricity had gone off again. Still, compared to others without fireplaces or cars and those forced to seek refuge in shelters, we realized how fortunate we are.

As I write these words on a battery-powered laptop, we’re assured that the electricity will soon return. Outside the only sound is the wiseacre wind and giggling ghosts of our Revolutionary-era forebears advising us that we should learn how to live off the grid.